I’m leaving for Canada in about 24 hours. I am going to Nova Scotia, somewhere I have never been. I have no idea what to expect—I don’t even know anything about who I am traveling with besides the fact that we share one common interest: professional wrestling.
We are leaving Tuesday morning for a week- long tour, and when I think about it, my head begins to spin.
My work papers that I am to present to Canadian security reads, “Miss Havoc will be performing as a professional wrestler and will adhere to the following schedule …” Holy shit, did an actual document that I am going to give to people protecting the border of another country just refer to me as a professional wrestler? How does this happen? I’m a 31-year-old bartender, a writer, a sister, and a daughter; how did I get here?
It still sounds insane when I say it out loud, but in truth I do know exactly how I got here.
Somehow, about a year ago I got it into my head that I wanted to be a professional wrestler. And one year to the day my papers are signed, it’s official, and I am hitting the road to fight, to actually do and be what I was only admiring one year prior.
My parents and my friends have become accustomed to what has become my life over the past year, but they certainly don’t understand it. My once carefree bar scene lifestyle has turned into long hours spent in the ring and my hangovers have turned to minor to severe injuries (one brain hematoma and a few torn tendons to be exact). I think it’s safe to say that in a sense I have turned into a different person, but I know for a fact that it is a better person, a person who is challenged daily by something she doesn’t quite understand, a person who is willing to stand up for something that the world doesn’t quite understand.
The only thing I know is what a rarity it is to be able to do what you love in this day and age.
It’s a crazy feeling, knowing that you have the power to control your life, to literally wake up one day and make a choice that will alter the course of the rest of your life.
Someone once told me over a fancy steak dinner that I wasn’t a wrestler, that I was a bartender, a writer, and that I was lucky to have those things because it was what I wanted to do. At the time I remember I believed him, and I was a little annoyed, although I never told him why. One year later on my way to Canada I prove him wrong. One year later I prove that even crazy dreams come true.